


A morning, after.

by I_Am_Many



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Captain America - Freeform, James Buchanan Barnes - Freeform, Loss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 16:10:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6862432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_Am_Many/pseuds/I_Am_Many
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What comes after the loss?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A morning, after.

**Author's Note:**

> Don't ask me why I wrote this, I don't even know myself. Just a burst of inspiration that had to be recorded I guess.  
> I understand that not everyone will want to read it, and I don't blame you, but just so you know, I tried to make it seem as realistic as possible and not overly dramatic as it could have been.
> 
> If you really want to submerge yourself into the atmosphere, here is what I listened to while writing it (and also sparked my inspiration):  
> https://www.youtuberepeater.com/watch?v=Y5FYs70kZGQ

In the dim light of dawn I wake up, opening my eyes to be greeted by the creamy ceiling that seems grey in the dull sunlight.

I sit up to get out of bed, slowly, tired from all those nights when I barely sleep. Siam awakens from his feline slumber and stretches lazily from head to tail before walking over. He looks at me and sometime I think I see a question in his beautiful blue eyes that remind me of Steve's, or some sort of knowing look, saying “you're not alone”. Then it's gone and I gently scratch him on the head which makes him purr.

Mindlessly fixing breakfast, my movements are given very little thinking these days. I give Siam some food, put the kettle on, take the coffee out, get the sugar. I open the cupboard and start taking two mugs out. Then I stop. He's gone now.

No one ever tells you that, but after all the grand gestures and ceremonies and condolences, when you're finally left alone, your everyday life changes in the simplest but most painful of ways. Nothing works in pair anymore. Only one mug. Only one plate. Only one toothbrush. Only one pillow.

We always more or less seriously joked that my body would give out before his, after everything Hydra did to me. It turns out even super serum can't cure a sniper's bullet to the head. The country, the world, mourned Captain America. Steven Grant Rogers. National hero, world savior, Avenger.

I mourned Steve. Little guy from Brooklyn, my best friend, my love. At the ceremony I had a picture of us, my arm around his shoulder, both laughing, that was taken in 1936. It was in my front pocket while I helped carry his casket.

Letting out a long sigh, I put his favorite mug back then make myself some coffee. I stand still in the kitchen, cup in hand, my thoughts scattered. With the blinds barely open, the sunlight makes a pattern of shadow and light stripes on the tiled floor. He would have liked that, maybe try to draw it. Somewhere, muted but still close, I can hear the day start, the bustle of commuters walking and driving and talking loudly as I stay here silent. For me everyday is quiet now, lethargic. As if time had somehow slowed my life down after his death. I flow through minutes and hours and days, not knowing which ones are which, not really caring anyway. I have no chronological markers left now.

All I remember about time is the few years we had together. The missions, the laugh, the travel, the love. When all that stopped I got lost, tangled in rage and madness in the darkest corner of my mind. Eventually I came back out and went home with revenge's blood on my hands.

Since then everything has been slow. I know he lived for many years without me, and in this moment I realize the pain he must have been through when he thought he'd lost me. Now that I know without a doubt I lost him, I guess I could still try to do the same. Live on. He would have wanted me to do that.

I'm still standing in the kitchen, my coffee gone cold between my hands. I slowly pour it down the drain, watching the black liquid clinging to the white ceramic before giving up and letting go. Some times I wish to let go. I think of my life without him, and I want to. But then I don't. Because he wouldn't want me to. So I just try and carry on.

Yet, as one of his favorite book says, “why has he gone where I cannot follow?”

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't hate me. I hate myself enough for writing that already!  
> Comments welcomed as always!


End file.
